Oasis
by PlanetOfTheWeepingWillow
Summary: Alfred isn't seen for twelve years. At first it seemed almost like a blessing, but as time went on the nations, particularly Arthur, began to worry. When he does show up after they invite him he brings more questions than he answers: he remembers nothing of being a nation, and, to top it off, he has a daughter. possible USUK
1. The Man Who Forgot

** 1.**

_The Man Who Forgot_

"Come on, Dolly, we need to hurry up." Alfred called, using his daughter's pet name. She looked up from the assortment of chocolate she had been secretly admiring. She was a regular sized twelve year old, with hair in subdued yellow ringlets, blue eyes masking a certain zest for life, and long lanky legs under a cotton skirt.

"Dad, can't I at least have one?" She pointed to the sixty-nine cent bar of chocolate.

Alfred looked from her to the chocolate and his heart waned. "Fine, but if they yell at me at that meeting I'm blaming you."

"Me?" She said in mock surprise, hiding a smile unsuccessfully as he purchased her the candy, putting it in her hand and carrying the rest of his groceries on one muscled forearm. She trailed behind him, peeling away the wrapper, and trying to eat it neatly. Alfred sighed and wiped her freckled cheek with his thumb.

Dolly, full name Daniela Grace Jones, batted at him with fire alight in her eyes. She resembled her father so much so nobody could guess she had a mother. If it was possible for a lone human body, a male let alone, to have a child then no one would have questioned her past. But, seeing her motherless, with a handsome, broad man who rarely aged as a father, queries were thrown full-power at her. She dodged them easily, her snarky attitude combating them.

Alfred brushed his hair back from his strong face, tossing the groceries precariously into the back of his truck as Daniela climbed in through the front. She sat, polishing off her chocolate bar, until he entered, making the already shabby truck tilt.

"Do you want to go to a daycare place or come with me to a boring meeting?" Alfred asked, adjusting his cherry-red tie in the rearview mirror. It cost him quite a fortune and his meek budget fed by his steady roofing job was reduced to barely enough to hold him another year. If the meeting went well then it was no worry. Dolly could go to a nice school, too.

"I'd rather go to that meeting," she snapped back. The idea of the repugnant daycare, filled with snotty infants and bratty toddlers sickened her. She rolled down the window and perched her elbow against the frame, gazing out solemnly at the scene whipping past. Trucks and trains with graffiti whirled by, the grass became a green blur, and the other cars, with bored drivers, rolled on by calmly.

"It'll be boring," Alfred teased her.

"I know."

Dolly had a foul temper when it came down to it. Alfred could only smile the weary way single parents did, his blue eyes, once the bright, youthful color of the sky, turned cloudy towards the street.

"World Meeting Center," Dolly read out from the card. "Says it's on Chateau street, isn't that a while away?"

"Sure is." Alfred nodded at the map poking its battered head out from behind Dolly's head. "Get that, I have no idea where it is."

For nearly an hour Dolly, making several tiny mistakes, led Alfred to the World Meeting Center. She turned the map sideways and backwards, mocking him and giggling madly. Alfred tried to ignore her giggling, focusing on the job offer.

It wasn't actually a job offer. It was a proposal. In fact, it was more of an invitation. Alfred had discovered the card and a letter in his mailbox. The letter was written in short, curt style that kindled a tender fire of déjà vu. It asked him to come to the address on so and so date. It said nothing about a child. Except for his name written in the bottom corner (next to a scribbled "USA" Alfred found amusing) the letter gave no notion of knowing who Alfred was. Maybe Alfred was asked to represent the US in this meeting? Alfred thought that was an asinine move. He was no politician. Sure, he knew the country's history by heart, almost too well, but other than that what authority did he have? He barely remembered his childhood, except for dull, photographic images of barns and a bout of sickness.

He parked before the building, leaving with Dolly trailing behind him, examining the tall, beige piece of thousand dollar construction standing erect before her. Once inside a woman at the front desk looked once at him and pointed to an elevator. "Go to the fourth floor and to room 215."

"Thanks!" Alfred said, gesturing for Dolly to follow.

The woman's head snapped up at the sound of a child's footsteps and a child's high-pitched voice and a child's nervous tick at playing with the ends of her hair. The woman regarded her in an almost friendly way. The woman's head of jovial blonde curls bounced, her pouty red lips pursed. "I'm sorry, you have to stay here. Your father can call you in a few minutes. Down that hall, room 13, there's a television. Make yourself at home."

Dolly parted reluctantly from Alfred. Alfred gave her a nervous grin and went upstairs himself. He stood before 215 and raised his fist. He paused, his knuckles a hair away from the false mahogany. A loud crash came from the inside and a thousand curses in different languages flourished afterwards. Alfred stepped back, his heart thudding with excitement. He swallowed his apprehension and knocked. The room fell completely silent. The door swung open and a young woman, almond-shaped eyes and ebon black hair, gestured for him to sit at the head of the table.

"Are you mistaking me for someone else?" He said, his voice dancing with nerves. She shook her head. "I…" he sat down, hardly daring to look across the room.

"Alfred?"

Alfred looked up suddenly, looking straight at the speaker, a broad Frenchman with high cheekbones. The Frenchman gave him a comforting, almost loving smile. Alfred fidgeted with a pen he found on the table, next to a stack of papers that made his head swim.

"Hi," he said. Damn it! That was unprofessional. He felt that he had already blown his opportunity.

"Hello." Another voice, distinctly British, said. Alfred looked at the speaker, a mop of bushy yellow hair over prominent black eyebrows.

"Hello."

All the eyes in the room, of which there were dozens, focused on him. Some were in shock, others in a cool relief, and still others in fear.

"Do you know who we are?" The British man said, placing his laced fingers on the table.

"I'm afraid not, sir," Alfred added, his heart threatening to pound out of his chest.

The man's face fell, not in disgust, but in a sort of knowing sorrow. "I'm Arthur, by the way."

"Being so gentle, are we?" The Frenchman, Francis, teased.

Arthur shot him a half-hearted scowl and returned to Alfred. "Well," he put on an affected smile, fabricated, strained, pained, "Tell us about yourself, then, Alfred."

Alfred didn't like the jump in topics, but didn't want to doubt the man who seemed like his boss. "I'm Alfred F. Jones, I live in the apartment complex a little bit away with my daughter, Daniela." At that sharp gasps resounded and Francis turned bright red. Arthur didn't change his expression.

"Do you have a spouse?"

"No, I'm afraid not," Alfred said, "And there's not much to say about me. I'm a little forgetful, but I like all kinds of music and movies and a good game of baseball."

In the back a black-haired man gave him a smile. "Me too," he mouthed.

Alfred nodded, trying to speak again but finding himself confronted by an army of verbal hiccups suddenly ambushing through his mouth. He cleared his throat. "I don't want to seem rude," several people snickered, only adding to his discomfort, "who are you all?"

"We're representatives." Arthur said, "And you have been by chance hired to work for us for a little while. We can give you some money to help you along, so don't worry about that, on top of your pay, too. What I want you to worry about is this question, totally out of curiousness, how old is your daughter?"

"Twelve years old," Alfred said.

"Where were you when she was born? Did you recently move into this city, is what I mean?"

Arthur the inquirer, Arthur the detective, Arthur the man who could restrain a grudge so long as there was a mystery to solve…

Alfred furrowed his eyebrows. How did he know that? He also seemed to know, like one might know offhandedly how to undo a knot even if they never knew it, an ape playing with toys in a zoo, he seemed to know that Arthur's cooking was bad. He was untangling the maze of his misty, murky memory.

"I don't know." Alfred said. "I don't have a good memory, like I said."

There were three knocks on the door, rapid, made only by a small hand. The woman who opened the door for Alfred did so again. Another hush fell over the room. A half cleaned up vase lay in one corner. A rare flower, a cyclamen, was buried in a pile of rubble after the catastrophe. The broom next to it leaned against the wall. The shards of glass were collected on the table. At the door, Dolly looked in. She saw her father and noticed he was in the company of other strange men and women. She took a shy step back, evidently rethinking her childish plans of making the best of her situation.

"Who are you, dear?" Arthur asked, placing his elbow on the back of the chair and turning. He caught her staring at Alfred. "Is this your father?" He pointed at Alfred.

Dolly looked panic-stricken, but not for that reason. She nodded stiffly, once, twice. She fumbled over words; her mouth opening several times, before she shut it, swaying on her heels.

In the far back, a woman Alfred had not spoken with yet, stood up. She walked around the table, her brown curls long, deviously so, and she bent before the girl. She asked something and was led away by the bouncing, relieved girl.

A shadow passed over Arthur's face before he turned back. "Don't worry. Elizaveta will have anything your daughter needs taken care of."

Alfred thanked him. Arthur pulled a piece of paper from his breast pocket and slid it across to Alfred. "Sign it with your name and phone number. We'll call you. After that you can go."

"Thanks," Alfred said, standing and scribbling over the paper in an almost illegible scrawl before leaving to see what had troubled his daughter.

Arthur turned to Francis. A dull murmur of conversation rippled through the crowd. Arthur's polite, feigned smile turned into a grimace. "It's Alfred, look at this handwriting, if his looks weren't enough."

"I never said they weren't." Francis retorted.

"Yes, but what I'm concerned about is why the hell he can't remember any of us. He was scared, too, and…" he scratched his neck with the back of his pen. "Why does he have a daughter?"

"Maybe you meddled in some black magic of yours!" a voice from the back sounded. Arthur silenced them without looking away.

"Did you?" Francis asked seriously.

Arthur shook his head. Elizaveta returned and took her seat. They looked at her. No words were spoken. She gazed directly at Arthur. "Don't worry about it, something just scared her down there. She's still a kid. But she's completely mortal. She doesn't even have a trace of nation blood, if she did, wouldn't there be a new nation running around?"

* * *

_I do not own Hetalia_


	2. Do I Wanna Know?

**2.**

_Do I Wanna Know?_

The therapist sat Alfred down on the couch, picking up a notepad and sitting across from him at a desk. She gazed at Alfred for some time, scrunching her lips to one side. Alfred had been a regular visitor for the past few months, ever since he went to the meeting. He hadn't been invited back since. He sought to venture into the murky, inky depths of his past and seek something, anything out that would reveal why he couldn't remember.

"Have you done as I told you? Have you reduced your stress?" She asked.

Alfred nodded. "It doesn't help much."

She blew air through her nose, her nostrils flaring. She had a long, permanently bored looking face and circular eyes. However she was fond of Alfred.

"Mrs. Ross," he said after some time, closing his eyes. "There it is again."

Ross's eyes widened further and she leaped for her pen, leaning on the table as if by closing the distance between them she could see into his mind. He shut his eyes. "I feel excited…"

"Go on," she urged. On her notepad a section of the notes had been labeled "flashback episodes". In a previous visit Alfred was describing the trouble having a bad memory caused him when suddenly he stopped, clutching his chest. He huffed and lowered his head, sweat beading on his forehead. Now, much the same thing happened. Alfred clutched his throat instead, as though drowning.

"I can see… I can hear voices, a woman, she's speaking to me."

The memories appeared like a word one wants to remember, but flitted away the second he placed his mental fingers upon its surface. The woman, gray-faced, colorless, waited on him in a pink frock, dabbing his forehead and muttering something in a foreign language. The word "mother" echoed dimly in the chamber, infested with growling, hungry loss.

"Gone," Alfred said, opening his eyes. He let go of his neck, pinching his white shirt and raising it, so to allow fresh air onto his damp chest.

"What was the consistency of the dream? Were the images clear or fuzzy?"

"It was like looking at someone in a very darkroom with a glass in between." Alfred said, recalling one last time the nurse in pink before the image was snatched away by greedy hands.

"I'm going to, then, repeat what I told you on our first meeting. I think it is amnesia caused by some sort of trauma. You recall a nurse, don't you? And you said your earliest distinct memory is," she rifled through her notes, finding Alfred's case more and more interesting. "Is when you were holding your daughter and feeding her?"

"Actually I have a memory earlier than that. Since then it's been cropping up and I can see it more and more." Alfred wondered if Dolly was doing well in school.

"Describe it the best you can," the therapist said with a vaguely encouraging smile. Her windows pooled in gray light from the foggy morning. Alfred gazed out it, describing the dream as she ordered.

It began with him in a car. The stars covered the sky like dusty, glittering vaguely. Next to him was a woman with her hair whipping in the wind, snapping at the eerie darkness. The car had no roof, but not because it was expensive. She wore a cotton shirt and red shorts, her hands on her lap and her freckled face grinning at him. He was driving, his head throbbing with a constant headache.

"Do I want to know?" He asked.

"Do I want to tell you?" She asked back.

The memory ended, like a reel of tape suddenly clicks off. The sounds seemed strange, off, almost like a dream.

"I see," the therapist said. He didn't turn his head to look at her. "If only we had any medical papers aside from these." Ross was at the top of her class. She loved to discern puzzles, to cruise through mazes, to find an end to a means, and Alfred was a challenge she would not let go of, even if it meant losing her business stance. "Here it says you have several scars that have healed years ago, some strange heart problem. I'm no doctor. There's nothing about your brain."

"I didn't let them look at it." Alfred said simply.

Ross refrained from glowering at him. She respected his choices. She was a counselor, a pillow to rest on and whisper to, a pair of ears to listen, and sometimes the one who wrote down the names of pills to calm the irate. Alfred left to go to work. When he finished he picked up Dolly and they ate leftover pizza: their favorite.

Dolly, Daniela, Graze, DGJ, sometimes seemed unreal. Sometimes when Alfred brushed her hair in the haphazard way single dads do and tied on the knot, unable to create a feminine touch, he would feel a tingling sensation on the coarse pads of his fingers and underneath his short nails. He would feel as though he was touching a dream, an insane figment of his mind. Dolly would turn and hug him, her tomboyish clothing sagging on her frame, the way she liked it, and the illusion would vanish. She went to her room in the apartment small enough to be mistaken for a motel room. She would draw, do her homework, and listen to her music.

Alfred thought back to the therapist that day, watching the rain wash the streets, pooling in the curbs like dark shards of glass. The remainder of the pizza remained on plastic plates, drops of oil below it, a large bite taken out of one end. He worried Dolly ate too little. But he didn't have a way to reprimand his daughter. He could have yelled at a son but his daughter, the only feminine, innocent child presence…? It reminded him of the woman in the car. When he recalled that memory, replayed it in his brain, he felt strong.

Thunderheads loomed ominously overhead, tight bundles of cackling, electric clouds. Alfred snuffed out the cigarette he didn't know he had lit. The smell lingered in his mouth and his heart skipped a beat. It felt familiar. He knew that scent. He had kept the lights in his drawer in case he felt too nervous, having picked them out by chance before the fateful meeting. He took another breath in, sucking the scent in through his nostrils, and was brought back before a face smoking the same brand on a cushioned leather armchair, holding a pipe, not a cigarette, but the smell was nearly the same, in one hand and in the other he held a thick book: _David Copperfield_.

"It's my favorite," he said to a third party in the room, a thin wisp of smoke exiting his nostrils. "I must have read Dickens's stories a hundred times. He really was a good man…"

The man was Arthur. Alfred had no doubts. Arthur was a dull figment in his mind, rekindled by the meeting, and only know rising in heat and brightness to be visible in the mind's eye's weak cones and rods. Alfred wished he had Arthur's phone number.

Fate did not smile her stony face until a week had elapsed. He was home from work, tired, aching, and trying to find solace in the money he had earned to feed his small family. The telephone rung and he plopped down on the couch, his shirt riding up his belly and his pants unzipped. Dolly was visiting a friend. He picked up the receiver, sighing.

"Hello?" Arthur's voice burst through the other end. His accent reminded Alfred strangely of fields filled with rabbits and an assortment of flowers.

"Is _David Copperfield _your favorite book by chance?"

"Yes, it is." Arthur paused. Alfred could image his face on the other end, round, soft, a snub nose with dissymmetrical freckles along the bridge, eyes like wells, and the constantly dry lips. "How did you know?"

"Sometimes I can remember things, but only for a second, and then it goes away."

"That's so interesting! Not a phenomenon of medicine, nothing science can deduce, and certainly nothing that the strange realms of magic can even begin to probe…! Yes, I meant to ask you if you remember anything at all. Do you remember when you got Daniela?" he strictly used the girl's given name, his voice almost falling at the mention of her.

Alfred turned to a pale photograph perched on his table, next to the telephone stand. There was Dolly, six years old, playing in a lake Alfred used to enjoy going to. She showed her teeth when she smiled, her nose scrunched, and her small hands holding out a flower she found.

"Yes, I do, but very dimly. The last thing I can clearly recall is when I was feeding Dolly with a bottle, holding her in my arms, and then I moved out of New York." Alfred said at last.

Static filled the receiver. Arthur had fallen silent, contemplating something. Finally he sighed on the other end. Alfred could almost smell the pipe.

"I have the answer. At least, I think I do. I can tell you."

"Do I want to know?"

Alfred recalled again that girl, her soft muscles, her nails painted pink, the night sky spinning past as he drove on to nowhere.

"You don't?" Arthur asked, baffled. "I thought you wanted some answers?"

"Yes, actually, I want to know. Can you come over?"

"I can come tonight."

"That sounds good."

"Will your daughter be there?" _D_aughter, _D_aniela, _D_olly; nearly the same sound at the beginning. Arthur had hesitated on the falling tone of the first syllable. Alfred felt conflict rising like dust trodden on with a heavy boot.

"She's visiting with a friend."

"I'll see you in two hours." _Click. _Alfred's ear filled with the dull buzz of a dead line.


	3. Goodbye, Mr Blue Sky

**3.**

_Goodbye, Mr. Blue Sky_

Arthur lounged on the couch, with stuffing creeping from various holes and duct tape vainly trying to conceal old scars. He placed his hand on one arm and the other holding a mug of tea Alfred had supplied him. Alfred sat across the room on his own chair, his legs crossed. Birds twittered. Below the apartment a family rested in the enclosed park, laughing at some joke, and sucking in the last of the good weather.

"Why do you call her Dolly? Her name is Daniela, isn't it? I would think Danny makes more sense." Arthur said, taking a sip of the amber liquid. He set it on the coffee table before him, clearing several of Dolly's magazines and a book Alfred never got around to finishing.

"Danny is kind of boring, isn't it?" Alfred asked. "And I like the way 'Dolly' sounds. Then again a lot of people mistake her full name for Dahlia or Dolores or some other polysyllable title with 'dol' somewhere in there."

Arthur nodded. He wore dress pants, polished Italian shoes, and a green vest over a refined silk dress shirt. Alfred felt uncomfortable in his black t-shirt and ripped jeans. A tingle of comfort rippled through him at the thought—he was used to it, he realized. Everyone who knew Arthur was used to it. Arthur had his own sophisticated style, no matter the occasion, unless he was delving into some secret obsessions. He drank his tea without spilling. Arthur, Arthur follower of Thor, Arthur of the Round Table, Arthur of the Kings, Arthur of literature and fantasy and stories of magic and green, wet fantastical forests and a gray glass-like sea. Arthur whose shadow stretches long and far, filled with half-hidden blood stains and foul smells.

"Tell me what happened, then." Alfred said nervously. The memories were flooding back, inundating just behind a dam. Maybe Arthur could break that dam and allow the precious past to engulf him.

Shifting in his seat, Arthur prepared to speak. He cleared his throat with two quick grunts and gathered his thoughts, his eyelashes fluttering, heavy, big eyelashes that women tended to exclaim their jealousy over. "There's the obvious explanation that you got into an accident after, or that caused, your wife's death. By wife I mean the mother of your child." Arthur's lips paled as he drew them tight, turning away vaguely and not looking at Alfred as he spoke, directing the conversation at the photograph on the coffee table. Alfred stood there. The photograph was taken by Dolly playing with his old camera, watching her father pour over taxes; how interesting. "And the accident," Arthur continued, "wiped your memory and left you the single father of a lone girl. But that's not possible. I suppose I should give some background first. What's a mystery without the event that caused it?

"Several days before this so-called accident should have taken place I remember you were troubled. I'm not sure what exactly happened. Only you know that. Next thing I knew you called me in the middle of the night and a woman spoke to me because you could barely speak. The woman told me something about going on a drive. I think, but it's possible that this was only a figment of my imagination, I heard a baby crying in the background. Afterwards you don't show up to work anymore."

"Is that how I know you?" Alfred interrupted. Pale girl in the car with her hair dancing in the wind her eyes bloodshot the smell of liquor hanging in the air like jealousy to an unsuspecting fellow. "I used to work with you?"

"Something like that," Arthur said. "I'm sorry but I can't tell you exactly who you are. I know all the answers. I've known you for a very long time. But as for now I cannot say a word. Think about it like this: in three words I can change your life. You can stay like this, I suppose, someone else can take over for you. You can watch Daniela grow up and live a normal life, with support I can channel to you easily. Or you can find out what happened and return to us. I make no promise about Daniela. You have a choice: your daughter or your past. The answer must seem obvious, but how badly do you want to know your story? How badly do you want your daughter to know who you are, so she doesn't grow up seeing only the, and pardon the clichéd phrase, 'tip of the iceberg' that is you?"

There on that couch, in that sorry apartment, with a family oblivious to it down below, Alfred was finally given a life-altering choice. It was not poetic. He wasn't at a phone booth or park. He was at home, in regular clothing.

Seemingly forgetting his monologue, Arthur continued. "What baffles me is that, although a serious case of amnesia is most likely, it can't possibly happen. How can you forget over a century of memory over a little accident?" A century: a hyperbole, Alfred thought with a drop of denial. "—and not have died." He added.

They didn't speak for some time. Arthur thanked Alfred for the tea in a dim whisper, placing again his eyes on the photograph. "What a lovely picture." Arthur said. "I wonder who—are you all right?"

Alfred was doubled over, clutching his head as though it was about to burst between his fingers. He shut his eyes, seeing the images flash between his eyes two quickly. Here a polka dot dress, here prickly grass poking through his pants, here the metallic scent of a gun, and then a resounding laugh followed by a weak cry. The skies were gray. A television set stood before him, flickering quickly an image of some creature coming forwards, crawling, creeping, approaching, smelling, feeling…

When he raised his head again, Arthur was saying something.

"…get them sometimes too. Some mornings I wake up and I swear I can hear a whirr of zeppelins overhead and the wailing of an air raid siren. It takes me a long time. Well it takes my brothers a long time to bring me back to the present. So what did you see?"

Alfred described the images, trying to catch them as they ran away.

"How long ago did it feel?"

"I don't know, but it was in the distant past. I felt young, I think."

"Think back to it. Hold on to each memory and try your hardest to not think of it, but to feel it. It's only a hypothesis, a simple theory."

Alfred shut his eyes, cutting out the room. Tearing, a feeling like being cut straight through the middle, a sharp knife down his being, splitting him unevenly in half; one side strong and smart and the other proud and a strong fight—yes, that was it. Then there was something different, something like another person talking with him in a dimly lit room. Stars on a flag, trains running through the country on slick railroads, pain and intense morals, food, cotton, mills, textiles, the steam engine, women in bonnets, homemade jam, freedom, a child lying in his house with a wooden soldier by his head: that child is Alfred.

"It's like one light bulb just turned on in a dark room."

Arthur gave him a smile, a genuine, broad, sympathetic smile. "Good. Now, make your choice. Do you want to stay with your daughter?"

"What will happen to her if I learn who I am?" Alfred asked slowly, picking each word carefully.

"Again, I don't know that for sure, but she cannot stay. Talk it over with her. I'll discuss this with you later. Actually, I want you to talk to Francis first. I'll arrange that one week from today. He'll come here at five. Even if you haven't decided, he should help you out." Arthur hesitated. He stood by the door, not too tall in stature but far from short. He held the handle with one hand, seeing Dolly come up in the window. His expression of icy calmness fell. He opened the door, sidestepped Dolly without a word. The girl, short, gangly-legged, dirty from playing outside, with the innocent ignorance of children, ran into the room. She hugged her father briefly. Arthur had left, clambering down the stairs and to his car. It drove away with a dull roar. A pregnant woman in a flowered hat watched him leave before returning to her table. She sliced some of the cake and handed it out.

Dolly played with Alfred's cowlick, standing by the couch, as she drawled on about her visit. "Annabel took us the roller skating rink! It was a load of fun. After that we…" She went on, talking about youthful fun, pure all the way to the very core. Alfred smiled at her, laughing as she failed to tame the standing hair. Her troubles were shallow, he felt, compared to his past. He knew there was war littering it. He knew he was a battered shopping cart filled with crushed soda cans and crumpled news papers next to his daughter, a pretty bouquet of daisies. He didn't dare ask her for an opinion on what he should do.

He knew the answer. He couldn't leave his only daughter. He couldn't leave the soft blonde hair and innocent giggles nor could he leave her on her own. To choose to know about himself was a selfish thing, staying with her for his own bliss was also selfish. There was no way around it. When Francis comes, he decided, asking Dolly if she had eaten; yes, dad, we ate hamburgers: he would ask him if there was a way to know without having to leave. Francis was a kinder fellow with a touch of love that even Arthur at his most devout couldn't match up to. Francis was creamy food and gentle, dusky features. Even with that, Alfred felt admiration for Arthur, as if they had been close at one point.

Dolly went to the kitchen and plucked out a cup, running it under the tap. She took it to her room.

"Shower before you get into bed, Dolly, you don't want dirty sheets. I just cleaned them." Alfred called out.

"You mean Lola cleaned them." Dolly called back, referring to the friendly neighbor who took pity on motherless Dolly and decided to take care of their laundry.

"You men won't be able to do it," she said tartly. Her name was not Lola but Leah. No one called her Leah. She was a small, round, dimple-faced woman with a fondness for helpless people.

Dolly took a shower anyway. The tap ran and the faucet spat out bouts of insanely hot water. Dolly shrieked, turning the knob down. The water turned to needles of negative degrees. She shrieked again. Alfred went to the door and leaned against it, his heels painted the pale yellow of the light inside. "Make sure the faucet is screwed on all the way."

"What does that have to do with it?" Dolly cried out, creeping on her tiptoes to try it out anyway. It stopped spitting with such force, but the temperature could only improve so much.

"Thanks, dad," she called back. Alfred prepared himself a dish of frozen spring rolls and stuck them in the oven. As they defrosted, he pulled back the blinds. The picnic had ended as night set in a dreamy blue haze, bruised purple and bleeding orange.

He ate alone. Dolly finished showering and combed her hair, returning to her room. She dug up a magazine from the folds of a mattress and read it under lamplight. She lay on her belly, one arm propping up her chin, and both legs raised, ankles crossed. She swung them, knocking the toes against the wall behind her. She lazily flicked through the pages, finding out who did what and what clothing was in style. Alfred found it dreadfully boring. He went to his room and shut the lights, lying prostrate on the bed, until sleep finally overcame him.

The following week, precisely at five in the afternoon, Francis arrived. Getting Dolly out of the house proved simple. She was already invited back to visit with some Opal or Jessica or Jamie. Alfred saw her off, hugging her briefly. Francis smiled at him kindly. Around his neck he wore a soft silk scarf over fashionably distinct European clothing. His hairy hands remained at his hips. Alfred raised his hand to greet him. Francis ignored the gesture and hugged Alfred briefly, pulling him close like a doting grandfather.

"I'm just happy to see you again." He said. They arranged themselves as Arthur and Alfred had before. Francis declined tea and sighed heavily. "I'm sure Arthur told you that you have a choice. He's still trying to figure out what exactly happened to you—no, don't fret. He loves this sort of thing."

Alfred shut his mouth, ready to interject. "But," he said once Francis paused. Francis's clear eyes locked on him, urging him to speak. "But Arthur said that if I agree to find out who I am I'll have to leave Dolly. Now what work is so important that it comes over family?"

"No work is the answer you want to hear. I don't want to delve into a philosophical debate. Arthur is the one to do that. However, just like he said, in three words I can tear your Dolly away from you."

"How does that work?" Alfred scowled. "There has to be a way around this."

"I can't tell you… She'll vanish when I expose your identity. I think, and Arthur strongly disagrees with me—what's new? I think that your daughter is a sort of compensation for losing your past and becoming mortal."

Alfred shook his head in disbelief. "Who do you work for? Who did I used to work for?"

Francis bowed his head. He remained stubbornly silent. The day was considerably drearier than when Arthur visited. Clouds swallowed the blue sky, heavy with potential rain. Francis turned to look out the window, watching the clouds roam and a young woman place her laundry out on the balcony.

"Maybe," he said at length, "if you found out yourself who you are you can keep Dolly."

"What happens if I never find out?"

"We need you Alfred. Where we work, sure, a lot of people don't like you very much, yet all of us need you. You're vital. Also, a very certain one of us is fond of you; very much so."

A soothing accent, a polite European manner, a delicate fashion, and Francis's constant genuine, small smiles relaxed Alfred. He leaned back on the couch.

"Take a trip. Leave."

"What?" Alfred rounded on him. Francis stood next to him, leaning down slightly. His eyes were fearful and pleading.

"You heard me. Leave. Take a road trip around the country, anywhere, do not stay here. I'm helping you, I promise. Arthur wants you to stay for more than one reason."

Alfred scrunched up his nose, his glasses riding up. He adjusted them, watching as Francis slipped a white envelope in to his hands. Alfred refused several times until Francis wouldn't reply. He uneasily set it in his pocket, feeling the wad of cash rub against his leg.

"I have a feeling you know what happened." Alfred said slowly. Francis nodded.

"I haven't told Arthur because he's so damn stubborn and I can't tell you for obvious reasons. I can only start you on a hint but I don't want you to. Take Dolly out of school and take a long trip. I can handle any legal business. When she comes home, pack up and leave."

Alfred held up his hand, trying to quiet Francis. Francis stopped speaking, realizing just how quickly he spoke and how insane he sounded. He murmured an apology.

"Why are you doing this?" Alfred asked, standing up to face Francis fully. The idea of leaving didn't bother Alfred much. He wanted to go around the country and Dolly liked travel. It seemed like a perfect plan. A perfect plan with a rat crawling under the surface, its naked tail twitching and its red eyes glaring—Alfred could smell it. He huffed and crossed his arms.

Francis bit his lower lip. "I want you not to suffer like I did." Pain swam in his features, contorting his lips and moistening his eyes. "I lost a daughter for the same reason. Arthur hasn't. He doesn't know. He thinks the issue is that you will leave Dolly alone because this job requires your attention full-time. He thinks you can get away with leaving Dolly with a relative or something. Arthur is a good man. Stay away from him."

Alfred tried to digest this information. He chewed the facts slowly, causing them to release bitter liquid. "I can't run away forever." Part of him wanted to see Arthur again. Another part, a greater, stronger, psychological necessity wanted Dolly to remain with him.

"I'll call your brother. Meet him at the address I tell you. I'll call you with it tonight." Francis said quickly. His scheming hands and eyes and fingers worked to save Alfred from peril that broke not only his heart but his life. Alfred reached out and touched Francis's shoulder.

"I have a brother?"

Francis sighed deeply. "His name is Matthew. You'll recognize him when you see him."

Francis hugged Alfred tightly. He kissed Alfred's forehead, his bristly bead tickling him. Alfred winced under it, happy to bury his head in Francis's soft chest one more time. Francis smelled of wine and herbs. He retracted, placing his hands on Alfred's shoulders, looking at him with romantic, tender eyes. Alfred wondered how women didn't faint by just looking at him. Several strands of golden hair fell into his face, obscuring a quarter of azure eyes.

An hour after he left Dolly returned.

"You're early." Alfred said, looking up from his book. It slipped from between his fingers. She stood before him, ashen, her head bowed. "What's wrong?" he clambered over to her, rotating her entire frame so she looked at him.

"I was a little sick so I came home."

"Why didn't you call?"

She doubled over, grabbing her stomach.

The night was spent sleepless. Dolly moved from her room to the bathroom, retching, and then to Alfred's room where she huddled against his broad frame. He petted her hair, horrified. She opened her eyes in the darkness, grabbing his other hand and pressing it to her soft perspiring cheek.

"We're going on a trip tomorrow," Alfred decided. He didn't understand yet how his past was hurting his only present. He did understand that he could not remain.

"Where are we going?" She whispered, light kindling once again her voice.

"You'll see your Uncle Matthew."

"I didn't know I had an uncle."

"Neither did I, kiddo, Dolly, Darling Dolly… Darling Doting Dolly…"

"Sing me a song, Daddy." She used his pet name. Alfred nodded.

"A song…" Alfred sang in his low, raspy voice an old, old lullaby he didn't know he had retained. She fell asleep. Alfred continued to sing, petting her shoulder in fear, in constant fear. He eventually fell asleep for an hour before his alarm clock sounded. He dreamt of polar bears creeping on ice under a star-strewn, dancing sky. When the alarm clock ripped him free of his sleep, Dolly had improved and was now packing a bag with things.

Alfred smiled tiredly.

* * *

_The title of this chapter is in reference to two songs: Mr. Blue Sky (ELO) and Goodbye Blue Sky (Pink Floyd) which may or may not be clues **hint hint**_

_Thank you for the reviews, favorites, and follows!_


	4. Call to Arms, Farewell to Arms

4.

_Call to Arms, Farewell to Arms_

A black and white cat prowled from under the glistened hedge. It poked its head through a rusted wooden wheel, sniffing occasionally. Its whiskers twitched and it leaped through the triangular opening, landing without a sound. A mouse scuttled away from its wake. The cat pounced on empty air, playfully. It was a soft, docile house cat without claws.

"Get back here, Celeste! You can't be outside!" a girl cried after the cat, picking up the folds of her light pink dress and creeping through the thicket of greens and yellow flowers. The cat paid no heed, lolling in the warm sunlight. She bent down before it, scooping the mass of speckled fur into her arms. "What are you doing out here, C?" She cooed, her brown curls falling before the cat, who eyed them, ready to swipe with extended paws.

The cat meowed dutifully. The girl, giggling, went back into her farmhouse. Across the lot a young man watched the exchange. When she reentered the house, he turned his attention to a glistening silk spider web clinging to the banister of his balcony. He leaned back on his chair, warm, happy. Cows rattled their bells in the distance. Chicken pecked at the ground and a dog howled somewhere in the distance. The young man tucked his shirt into his pants, greeting the car that pulled up, rattling dangerously.

"Alfred!" The man in the car called, creeping out of the black exterior. It smelled of gasoline. Alfred scrunched up his nose at the scent. Once the man stepped closer to Alfred and shook his hand vigorously, Alfred invited him indoors.

"Hello, sir," Alfred said, scratching his sunburned and freckled cheek. He didn't wear glasses at the time.

"Hello, hello, yes…" the man huffed, adjusting his red tie from strangling him.

"What brings you here?" Alfred opened a jar of lemonade and poured some into a dusty cup. He offered it to the man. The man thankfully downed it, with the sound of a train whistling in the background.

"The steam engine is coming along nicely, isn't it?" he said in lieu of an answer.

Alfred agreed. He sat down heavily on the couch, feeling faint. He shut his eyes briefly, listening to the man tell him about the latest inventions. Steadily his voice grew louder and huskier. Alfred opened his eyes, wondering why he was suddenly very cold, wet, and uncomfortable. He was in the depth of night, a rain steadily pouring down in some city. The lights were glossy and wet, spilling out on to the traffic filled street. Alfred shivered, adjusting his suit around him. Already the farm and summer faded in his mind to nothing; to a memory. Alfred entered the building before him, certain that he was supposed to enter and deliver a highly important package located in the inner pockets of his jacket.

Just as he reached for his pocket, the dream faded and was pierced by the sound of a telephone ringing. Alfred shot awake, yawning and scrambling across the hotel bed sheets for the telephone. Funny, no one was supposed to know where he was. He placed the receiver against his ear, looking around to see the time. It was five am. In the bed next to his Dolly was asleep, a tanned shoulder exposed, a quarter of a circle cut off by her white tank top and the bed sheet. Her hair spilled behind her. She mumbled and stretched, ignoring the telephone's incessant ringing.

Alfred spoke softly, so as not to disturb her. He scratched his chest as he did so.

"Hello?" he whispered.

"I'm sorry for waking you up at this time, sir, but someone in the reception whishes to speak to you immediately." The secretary in the lobby below said nervously.

"All right," Alfred said.

"Hello," a voice he barely recognized said to him. He couldn't place it. "Don't worry, only I know where you are. Can you come down and speak to me for a moment?"

"Sure, hold on," Alfred said. If he denied the request—well, it gave him an uneasy, fearful feeling. He stood and pulled on a shirt and shorts, slipping into flip-flops. He moved to the door, checking to see that Dolly was still soundly asleep. Maybe he should write her a note just in case he was late. Then again Dolly can sleep until one in the afternoon if not disturbed, and they hadn't returned home until late due to too many stores capturing her attention. This shouldn't take long. He gave her a smile she didn't see and shut the door softly behind him.

…

Dolly stretched, blinking away the afternoon sun. She crept out of bed, dressing quietly, and then into the shady bathroom with a faulty light bulb to satisfy her hygienic needs. "Dad?" She called out into the main room. No answer. "Where's the…?" she paused. Usually Alfred answered her quickly. It was nearly twelve thirty. She walked back to the main room. The TV sat quietly, unused. Their belongings in two small suitcases were littered along the floor. Underwear was draped over the side, regular clothing tossed in the middle.

Alfred was not there.

"Dad?" She looked around for a note. No note. No nothing. Panic rose in her throat like a toddler lost in a grocery store. She picked up the pillow, looked at the notepad and unused pen, at the phone. She picked it up with shaking hands. She had never been alone like this. With trembling fingers she dialed reception.

"Hello?" She asked, trying to keep the tears from flowing. He was fine. He probably went to buy her lunch or breakfast or brunch, was it called? He probably will be back in a few minutes, in despair and guilty for leaving her alone for so long.

The woman at the reception, the same one fortunately from earlier that morning, replied. "Hello?"

For a hotel with the occasionally spider and bad air conditioning, it was excellent in service. It had once been a motel but a big shot liked it enough to feed it a good deal of money for renovations. That being said, it was still cheap. Alfred chose it with the promise of a nicer hotel in the future, just so they could save some money. He learned this information from his brother, who directed him from hotel to hotel through the telephone. He insisted that they stay there for a little while, so he could drive over and pick them up.

"I'm in room 24, and…" And what? I lost my dad. Help me. I'm twelve but I'm acting like a five year old. Dolly scowled at herself, pushing her hair back away from her face. "And did someone call this room earlier?" She asked.

"Yes, miss," the receptionist said.

"Thank you," she said, shutting the phone, not knowing what that solved. She sat down on the bed, pulling her knees up to her chest, and sat quietly. She would wait then. It was better than running out into foreign city streets with strangers.

…

When Alfred stepped into the lobby, he expected to find an obese man smoking a cigar, with pseudo-Mafia apparel and beady, watery eyes. Instead he found a well-dressed, prim, elegant looking young man with effeminate facial structure and delicate hands.

"Hello, Alfred," he said lightly, holding out his well-manicured hand. Alfred shook it. The man's hair was a dusty color and his lips pale. "I'm Edgar, it's nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too, Edgar," Alfred said nervously. He felt shabby yet again in his simple clothing.

"I'm afraid this may take a little while. Please, follow me." Edgar turned, gesturing for Alfred to follow.

"I should write a note to my daughter then, that I might be late." Alfred said, taking a step back.

"No, no, it'll be fine. You'll be back just as she goes into a rage." He said, lingering on the final word as if it was a particularly delicious specimen, chewing each sound and dwelling too long on the "g". He gave Alfred a whimsical smile, chuckling politely. "Don't worry, you'll be back in time is all I'm saying."

"Back in time for what?" Alfred asked timidly, wondering if he really should follow the man. He noticed a gleaming pistol under his coat, its nose barely sticking out, and decided he'd best follow.

The two men went into the cool early morning. Edgar led him into a long white car. Alfred entered the back, sitting next to Edgar. In the front a chauffeur began to drive. They left the hotel premises. Alfred thought back to Dolly sleeping calmly, her breathing hardly stirring the air. Alfred feigned stretching to reach behind him. Edgar cast a casual glance at him, picking up a newspaper from the flap before him. He opened it to the headline article: _CHILD LOST, FAMILY WORRIED._

"Don't worry, no one is behind you. If you were wanted dead, you would already be."

Alfred had a strange feeling he had done this same exact thing not long ago. He blinked away the déjà vu, humming in acknowledgment of Edgar's comment.

"I hope you don't mind, but we're taking you to breakfast." Edgar said to the newspaper, leafing through it.

"That's no problem," Alfred said without really hearing what Edgar told him.

A half hour later, they pulled up before an American-themed restaurant. Alfred followed Edgar inside. A few businessmen sat around talking to their cell-phones while poking at pancakes or sausages. Alfred was told to sit around a circular table near a window. A man and woman were already sitting there, waiting for him. Alfred nervously sat by the woman, looking outside. The world hardly stirred at this hour in the dry state. The restaurant was livelier at night, judging by the array of seats and the smell of delicatessen food. A waitress walked over to them. Edgar declined an order, claiming to have already eaten, but the other two ordered a house special. Alfred settled with eggs and toast. The waitress nodded, turning away.

"Hot body," the strange man commented.

The woman smiled silently.

"I'm Alfred," Alfred held out his hand. The woman shook it first, then the man.

"I'm Rowan," she said, "and this is Sully."

"Nice to meet you," Alfred said politely, feeling crowded in by the mass of black, tailored suits.

"Now, we've heard that you've been visited by two men trying to tell you of your past, right?" Rowan launched into business. She wore a simple gray skirt and an expensive dress coat. Her hair was blonde and artificially curled: framing a high-cheek boned face. "Well, what they've told you, about keeping your identity a secret for your own good, is false."

Alfred said nothing. Could Arthur really lie to him? Could Francis, whole, loving Francis really lie to him? Could his brother, if Matthew was his brother, also be lying to him? Rowan gazed at him with genuine interest, borderline despair. Maybe they were unsure themselves. Maybe they really wanted to protect him.

"We're going to tell you what really happened. You won't lose any memory. That being said, they aren't liars. They simply don't understand this ordeal like we do."

Sully nodded. He was a pudgy man, with premature wrinkles and watery eyes, a kind of dumpy Santa. Alfred bit his lip. The waitress swooped by with food. They fell silent, eating, until Rowan continued, dabbing her lips with an embroidered handkerchief.

"First off, I want you to know exactly what relationship we have with your… business partners. We work with them and against them. Our jobs inevitably intertwine. We, however, hold you in our best interest. They might purposefully tell you something that really will cost you your daughter, or, more importantly, your life."

Alfred was ready to correct her. His daughter was more important. But he remained silent, pushing the last crumbs of toast around on his plate with a butter knife.

"You were born on a farm," she said quickly, "and you were raised any old American way and went to college like a good kid. Your brother, I'm sure you have some relations with him, remained around you. Then after college you met a nice lady and had your daughter, by accident or purpose, I don't know. You were driving one night, intoxicated, had an accident, was subdued to amnesia, and finally you are here. Does that clear things up?"

"Sure."

…

Dolly stayed sitting on the couch, immobile, for nearly an hour. Her tears had dried. She already contemplated what she would do next. She could live in the hotel until she was forced to evacuate, then she would take the valise and her father's money, running until she found a nice home. Or maybe she would… she didn't know where else to turn.

She rocked on the bed, her arms hugging her knees to her chest, and sighed. The door's handle turned with a click. She froze. Whoever got her dad was now after her. Her heart thundered in her chest. She leapt off the bed, searching for a weapon, her pale knees trembling. The door swung open and Alfred stood there, a little wary, but unharmed. She burst into tears of rage and relief. Launching herself at him, she beat his chest with her small fists, mumbling something incoherent.

"I'm sorry for taking so long. I didn't think… I… I'm sorry." He kissed her head and held her until her tears subsided.

Her rage had flourished and diminished at an equal rate. Her rage—Alfred thought of Edgar's warning. It was only an educated guess, a conjecture. Nothing strange. Sure his cohorts were stiff and often leaked dangerous venom through their words, they seemed at least reasonable.

"Come on, Dolly, Uncle Matthew is outside ready to pick us up." He said. Dolly nodded. They packed their bags; or rather they tossed what they needed into the valises and zipped them up haphazardly.

Once downstairs and checked out, they went to a box-like red car. The front door opened and a man roughly Alfred's height stepped forwards, built like a lumberjack, with a compatible face and curly hair. "Hi," he said softly, gazing at Alfred in anticipation.

Alfred stared for a long time at his brothers. Memories trickled in. A love, a strong, brotherly love mastered his brain and he pulled Matthew into an embrace. Matthew looked like he would weep, but didn't. He patted Alfred's back.

"I'm glad to see you're alright… And who are you?" he turned towards Dolly who was frozen in place. She smiled wearily.

"Hi," she squeaked.

"She kind of looks like me," Matthew said.

She blushed furiously.

Matthew laughed and patted her shoulder. "Come on, we need to get going. Francis wants to talk to you again. Arthur's really mad. And there's another person I think you want to meet." They piled into the car and it zipped through the highway.

…

After a long drive consisting of "look at that" and various games, Matthew pulled up before his house. He didn't enter the garage. He stared at the front door, which hung open. The air turned to ice. Alfred exited and followed Matthew, ordering Dolly to stay behind. Dolly didn't need to be ordered. The brothers crept up the front steps laced with red and purple flowers and sundrenched.

The following events happened too quickly for Alfred to discern anything clearly. It all happened in a blurry, slow mess. Francis opened the door, his nose bleeding and one eye black. He stared at Alfred in horror. Then Matthew screamed. Then Arthur, sitting on a couch previously, launched at Alfred, punching him square in the jaw. Before Alfred fell to floor under the blow, he caught sight of something that quickened his descent into unconsciousness. Was it Ares? Mars? He couldn't tell, but it sickened him and all he could see before blackness swallowed it up was a single, dusty skull.


	5. Anger

5.

_Anger_

"YOU _IDIOT_!" Arthur bellowed, grabbing Alfred's collar and shaking him. Alfred grabbed Arthur's wrists, blinking away the final dregs of unconsciousness.

"What?" he cried out.

Francis grabbed Arthur by the waist, raising him up. Arthur's face was stained red, his emerald eyes pinned on Alfred, curses spewing from his mouth.

"You idiot!" he cried out. "You believed them? You actually believed them you…" he continued to spit curse words, his fingers bent to strangle Alfred. Dolly sat across from him on a couch, terrified silent.

…

Listen: Arthur relaxed after some time. He sat quietly, sipping tea. Francis tried to calm him, nursing his black eye. He placed a napkin to his nose. It slowly stained red, he didn't seem to mind. Alfred drank the coffee Matthew had offered him and Dolly cuddled up to him, scared stiff still, holding a cup of hot coco to her chest. She pulled the pink cardigan around her. It was several sizes too big. Even though it was a hot day, no one felt very warm.

"Who was that?" Alfred asked. He placed on arm around Dolly, pulling her closer. She buried her face into his side.

Arthur said nothing. Matthew sighed. He exchanged an uneasy glance with Francis.

"How about I tell you first?" Francis said suddenly, looking around the group eagerly.

"Tell us what you idiot?" Arthur snarled, still refusing to land his eyes anywhere near Alfred or Dolly, for that matter. Dolly felt alienated and turned away. She stood and left the room. She spent the next hour wandering the house.

"This afternoon I was in a restaurant. I knew something was amiss, though, because…"

"He must have knocked you silly!" Arthur said, astonished. "Lie down, please." Arthur said. He stood and pushed Francis back down on the bed. He placed an icepack Francis had abandoned firmly on his temple.

Francis didn't say anything. He looked distinctly dazed.

Alfred watched him and found himself taking a long, slow exhalation through his nose. Matthew watched him, fidgeting. "Alfred, you…"

"What?"

A tense silent squeezed in between them, like a giant animal, sweating, breathing heavily, sinking in the couch. Minutes ticked by. After an hour Alfred called Dolly.

"Dolly, we're leaving."

"I wouldn't do that." Arthur said suddenly.

"Oh shut up," Alfred rounded on him, his cheeks flushed red and his teeth gritted. "All you can do is mock other people for feeling bad! Can you say annnyyytthhhingg good about someone?" He lingered on 'anything'.

"Don't yell," Matthew said softly.

Alfred scowled at him. "You don't tell me what to do. You're no help either. All you guys do is stay mysterious, in the shadows, pretending I'm dumb or stupid or some sort of animal that can't understand you as you sneer into your fists. You idiots," he cursed them, "How hard is it to get a clear answer from any of you? And you, why are you acting like such a bitch, Arthur?" He rounded fully on Arthur, who tried to look impassive. He sipped from a cup that had gone stale. He tasted nothing and stared at his feet. "You, king of the damn world, king of the universe, you useless…" he cursed again, a long string of words harsh and foul Arthur didn't even react to. For a long time Alfred continued to blow off steam. He complained about it all and about nothing. Dolly was terrified. She'd never seen her father so mad. She cowed, holding her hands to her chin, feeling as though it was all her fault. Alfred insulted Arthur again and again until finally he slammed his fist on the table, retracted it red, and turned to the hall. "Come on, Dolly, we're leaving. I don't care if some rowdy teens messed up our car when we get back. Matt, make yourself useful and take us back. What was the point of bringing me here in the first place? To make a fool of me? You get these people who think they're so good in black suits and they tell me gibberish. What makes me mad is that I believed it all. I sucked it up like some stupid three year old."

What made Alfred madder was Arthur's total ignorance of what he was saying. He looked across at Matthew and asked for something to drink if he could. Matthew stood before Alfred really would hit Arthur like Arthur had hit him earlier.

"Alfred, I want you to stay here just for the night, okay, please? Your car is fine, I put it away in a garage here. I had someone do that. No, please, just sit down for a little while, sleep if you have to, we'll eat in two hours. Francis is cooking. Plus, you're scaring Dolly."

That stopped Alfred. He looked at Dolly whose cheeks were damp. Alfred turned crimson and ran up the stairs, driven by pure fury into remembering the layout of the house. He reached a guest room he used to use, flopped down on the bed, and felt nothing for an hour.

Oh what an idiot I yelled now dolly hates me what did I do I'm an idiot I'm stupid I can't

Later, after a tense, quiet dinner, Alfred hugged Dolly and apologized, deeply guilty. She apologized too, for a reason he couldn't fathom. She went up to her bedroom silently. Alfred didn't look at any of the three men behind him. It was Francis who finally spoke up. He touched Alfred's shoulder. Alfred flinched. Dolly disappeared down the hallway in the unfamiliar house, still sobbing for a reason she didn't know.

"What is it? Is it an answer? Oh, I forgot," Alfred said, mimicking false hopefulness.

Francis looked insulted. It only intensified Alfred's mirth, and then shattered it when Francis bit his lip slightly, exposing a row of small, pearly teeth. "Alfred, talk to me later."

Alfred did. He met Francis out on the porch. The moon was high, perched, milky, and spilling soft silver light on the grass and stones. Francis sat, alone, next to him on a plastic lawn chair. Alfred stood, leaning against the wall, swallowing the fresh air.

"It seems insane, doesn't it?" Francis asked.

"Yeah, and, you know, I liked my old life better. I don't care that I made less money. All I want is to be with Dolly and to just live a life without all this complexity… But, if anything, why did that jerk Arthur not respond? He's so prissy. He thinks he owns the damn world."

"He doesn't think that. Alfred, slow down, please. I want you to just understand for a moment what it's like in Arthur's head. I've known him forever. I want you now to know him too, or to try to remember, to know him again. Arthur's really a…" he searched for the write words, licking his lips, "a complex person," he concluded. "And he thinks that he has to figure out everything to be balanced. He's stubborn and has a bad temper. He doesn't like to be controlled. He needs to be the best. Do you understand? He wants to hold everything in his grasp. When he doesn't understand something he gets mad. When he's insulted in a way like you did, for a reason I don't want to expose yet, he doesn't know how to respond. Right now he could be crying, for all I know. I don't really know him as well as I'd like to." Francis laughed weakly.

Alfred said nothing, refusing to understand, to accept.

"Fine," Alfred said. Truthfully, the information made him uncomfortably guilty, again.

"He cares a lot for the people around him, especially for you." Francis said softly. Alfred had already gone indoors, slamming the door shut.

Francis remained outside, drinking in the cool air, and trying again, once again, to be the peace holder, the lover. And, once again, again and again and again, the circumstances proved against him. Only the pretty moon and star-flecked sky seemed at one with him.


End file.
